


Rechristening

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Baby, Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Reignite our love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8854333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: What happens at Jude's baby's christening stays at Jude's baby's christening. Except for a little something that turns up about nine months later.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for _Bridget Jones's Baby_ , obvs.
> 
> I started this to cover the shenanigans at the christening, but I couldn't leave things unresolved, without a happy ending.
> 
> Disclaimer: Oh, nothing about these characters are remotely mine, as much as I would love it to be so, or would love to see this play out on-screen. ;)

I said yes in a heartbeat when I was asked to be the godfather to the baby, because I knew who the godmother would be. I'm certain he asked me despite his reservations.

"Are you sure it's okay?" he'd asked me. He knew she'd been the one to leave me.

"It's fine," I told him. He probably thought I was agreeing reluctantly, out of a noble desire to help them out in a pinch. That I didn't really want to see her again. Nothing could be further from the truth.

………

When Jude told Shaz and me that he was going to be a last-minute substitute for Tom as her baby's godfather, I knew I should feel anxious or even reluctant to enter the church. But I didn't. In fact, it almost seemed… inevitable. Like his appearance at the memorial was a sign of things to come. Like a herald that he might be coming back into my life on a more regular basis. Even though he's married to someone else.

What is it with us and christenings?

When I walk in, he's already standing at the altar. I'm late, because let's face it, I'm always late. When he looks at me, it's almost wistful. Unsurprised that I'm late. And a tiny bit amused.

………

As soon as the ceremony is over, we have to do the pictures. We pose in a large group. Jude then hands Bridget the baby, and she and I pose together.

A simple misunderstanding about the photographer's request leads me to press my lips to her skin. As soon as I do, I know I'm going to need a good, stiff drink or two to make it through the rest of the day. The scent of her perfume, her shampoo—of _her_ —instantly stirs a flood of memories.

I order a double scotch.

………

He kisses me on my temple instead of the baby's, and I'm suddenly washed over by that old familiar scent. My knees go a little weak, easy to blame on the heels I'm wearing, on the spongy ground we're standing on. Today's going to be harder to get through than I thought. I suppose I could leave, but Jude would murder me if I left.

I order a large glass of wine. Very large.

………

Sharon's husband is playing DJ, and a pop song is playing that all of the children are bouncing around in time to. Some of the adults are too, including Bridget. I watch her unabashedly; I'm washed over with warmth at the reminder of her ebullience, her joy for life. I wonder if my presence affects her that little.

She catches my eye and to my surprise, she smiles.

………

He's standing there in Traditional Mark Darcy Party Mode, and I have to smile, because some things never really change. As always, he looks so awkward, so lost, that I think I might take pity on him.

I decide for the joke angle, because he never _really_ would have danced along to "Gangnam Style", but it misfires, though in a charming way. Of course he doesn't know the song. Of course he refers to the literal location in Seoul. I would have been surprised otherwise.

And then he asks me if I want to get air. "More air," he clarifies, because we're already outside on this gorgeous June night. I agree.

I am genuinely surprised when he asks me for a cigarette, not because he doesn't realise I've quit, but at the thought that he might have begun, particularly after all of the grief he gave me over it. He confesses that he's nervous.

This surprises me too.

………

What possesses me to ask her for a cigarette, I'm not sure; I feel a certain pressure to speak, and it seems to make sense until the words come out of my mouth. She's quit. I've never smoked. So I have to confess that I'm nervous. 

And then she asks me why. I don't know what to say besides confessing that the cause is being close to her after so long, so instead I observe that she has a toy stuck in her hair. I reach for it, which gives me a convenient excuse to touch her hair, brush my thumb against her skin.

Maybe it's the alcohol in my system—in fact, I'm sure it is—but I'm suddenly bold enough to touch her chin, raise her face to mine in order to kiss her. But she rears back, reminding me that I'm still married to someone that's not her.

Technically, it's still true. I tell her that we're divorcing. That's why I'm on my own that day.

"Oh. I'm so sorry, Mark," she says to me, looking up into my eyes with those soulful blue ones.

I confess that at that moment, I'm not sorry at all.

………

He kisses me, and this time I don't object. He pulls me close up against him. I bring up my hand and place it against his cheek, feeling the familiar warmth of him beneath my fingers, surrounding me. The kiss deepens, quickly turning passionate; the years fall away, and I put my arms around his neck just as his hands grasp my bottom and pull me closer still into him. If I'd opened my eyes in that moment and had seen snow flurrying around me, I would not have been surprised at all.

Against my belly is a hardness that is also deeply familiar. I can't say I'm not affected, myself, because after all of this time, after everything we've been through, I still love him to the core of my being, and still want him. I raise up on my toes a little, shifting against the hardness, and I feel rather than hear him groan into my mouth. He squeezes my backside, then steps back. And he looks at me with that way that he has, that dark gaze piercing into my soul, then reaches a hand out to me. I take it.

………

We really can't be seen walking hand in hand, but I extend my hand to her as a silent invitation to follow me inside. She understands. As soon as we are closer to the crowd again, she releases it. I reach into my pocket for my room key, which has the door number on it. I slip it to her, telegraphing for her to go upstairs, and that I'd be close behind.

As soon as I do we part ways. I walk along one side of the room; she, along the other. My eyes are riveted to her as she walks. I feel like the whole thing is moving in slow motion; the motion of her dress as she walks, the way she meets my gaze and confidently holds it before she has to look away, as a wall comes between us. She begins to ascend the stairs, and I am so focused on watching her that I am blindsided by Giles, who catches me, who's been meaning to talk to me to thank me for stepping in at the last minute.

But my eyes never leave her while they can still see her.

………

_Cock-blocked._ I smirk to think of Miranda's term, then continue my ascent upstairs, the sound of "YMCA" getting quieter with each step. I find the room and let myself in; it's dim but I choose not to turn on the light. Maybe I'm afraid putting on the light will cause one of us to reconsider, and I'd rather not risk it.

As I take off the fairy wings I've been wearing most of the night, I wonder about whether I should take off my dress, take down my hair and I remember the train and the cake that are caught in my hair. I work to get it out—trains and cake are hardly sexy—and I just finish with this task, tossing the toy train aside, when I hear the door open and close behind me.

I turn and look at him, and feel my heart skip a beat. Those dark eyes shining, that gaze so penetrating. He strides over to me, takes me into his arms, and wastes no time kissing me, pressing me against him. I feel his fingers move and fumble over the million buttons up my spine; in frustration, he mutters, "How the fuck am I supposed to get in here?"

It breaks the tension and we both laugh. I turn towards the bed as he takes me into his arms again, and we move then fall to the bed.

Why the fuck had I worn a dress with so many bloody buttons, anyway?

………

I manage to undo as many of them as is necessary to get the dress off, and I pull it off of her as quickly as I can; she shivers a little as the air hits her skin. I'm determined to get out of my suit as fast as I can, and while I do, she digs into her handbag, throws something down on the nightstand, then slips in between the sheets.

I hasten to join her. I unclasp her bra and toss it towards the foot of the bed, then she wiggles out of her pants and I toss those aside, too. 

Then it is just her and me, side by side, skin to skin, and I dive upon her to kiss her thoroughly, sliding a hand over her arse, over her hip, up to cup her breast. I am eager to have her after so long a time without her, but by the same token I want to take my time, want to savour every moment, every inch of her body. I move from her lips, to just below her earlobe, to her throat, which I kiss with languid open-mouthed kisses as I inhale the scent of her, feel her pulse beneath my lips. She arches her back, grinding her hips into mine. I make a sound low in my throat.

I then turn my attention further down, and take the tip of one breast between my lips, grazing it with my teeth.

Just like old times.

……… 

Not unexpectedly, his hands go to my waist, and almost immediately his lips are on my chin, my throat, my breast. It's what he always likes to do, and I don't find it at all monotonous; in fact, the anticipation of what he's about to do heightens the sensation when he actually starts to—

Oh, the _teeth_. Zinging all the way to my toes. I can't help my reaction. I let out a gasp and rake my nails through his hair. He grasps my waist, moving to the other side, running circles around the nipple with his tongue.

But oh. A slight change to the usual order of things, as I feel his fingers slip against the crease along my upper thigh, then dive between my legs. I welcome it, make no mistake, and begins to stroke slowly and languidly, but quickly building speed, driving me positively mad.

I moan as he stops, but not for long. He's seen what I put on the nightstand, and he stops to reach for one, pausing only long enough to tear into it and slip it on.

And then he's back. And then… Oh _God_.

………

I feel my arousal building fast, much faster than I expect—absence makes more than just the heart grow fonder, I suppose—and I stop for a condom, because a gentleman always dresses for the occasion. Then I turn back to her, slip my hand between her legs to part them.

And then I drive forward. My aim is true, and we both moan loudly in tandem. I rock forward, filling her completely, before I move back and then forward again. Faster. Faster still. I'm not going to last much longer. From the sound of it, she won't either. But I want her to come first, so I bring my thumb between us, find the spot she loves so much.

She cries out, arching up into me, and I can feel her beginning to come. I wait for her to signal I should stop as I always do, but she doesn't. I want to let her come first, but I can wait no longer.

Oh my God, how I've missed her.

………

Even as he touches me where our bodies meet, even as he triggers climax after climax and I cry out protractedly such that neighbours surely think I'm being murdered, I'm amused because he can't tell, he never _could_ tell when I'm coming. He's so sweet, though, not to stop, so eager to get me off, even at the cost of putting his own satisfaction aside.

But then he does that thing he does where he arches taut as a bow forward, and I know he's about to come. And he does. He's gasping for breath, groaning with his effort.

When he's spent, he shifts to the side, caressing my face and kissing me. The waves of pleasure pulse through me and I kiss him back with equal passion and fervour, which rather leads to the fast fanning of the flame of desire roaring back to life again. Fortunately, I am a lady who prepares for just such an emergency. Most of that box of condoms remain. 

He rolls me over then sits up with me so that I'm straddling his lap, still kissing me, and now with freer access to running his hands over my body again. Carefully, I back away from him; at his wounded expression I attempt to express without words that I'm only doing so for a change of protection. After I dispose of it, he falls back to the pillow. I get another packet, then return to him again.

………

I'm half way to full arousal again when she pulls away; I realise pretty quickly it's in order to change the condom, because she's feeling it too. When she comes back she straddles my lap again, tears open the packet, then begins stroking me. It's bliss, and I close my eyes. When I feel her lips on mine again, the surprise contact hits me like an electrical spark, and I kiss her with equal passion. Her thumb presses knowingly on the head, and I shudder with the pleasure. She withdraws her hand in order to slip on the new condom.

And with that, she lifts herself onto her knees; I slip my hand between her thighs, warm and hot, and guide myself into her as she descends. She moans and begins to undulate, her arms linked around my neck. My hands are on her arse, pressing, urging her along, and the sounds that she's making tell me that she's close again to coming.

I hold her, my hands on her back, and lower my head to take the point of one breast again between my lips, and rake it with my teeth. She jerks a little, then moans, and as she comes she reaches down to cup me, just below where we're joined, and oh God.

………

I know he likes it when I touch him like that, but even I underestimated how much. Before I can say a thing, he's pushing me onto my back so that my head's at the foot of the bed, he's over me, and he's pounding into me with wild abandon, sustaining my climax as he comes, too. My head is swimming with a blaze of colour and every nerve ending is seemingly on fire.

I can't remember the last time I felt so alive.

I come back to the reality of the room to find his hand on my face, stroking my hair, and kissing me oh, so tenderly.

"Bridget?" he asks me.

"Yes…" I breathe.

"Were you… faking _not_ having an orgasm?"

I believe this is the first time he's ever actually called attention to this; I thought that perhaps he just has been a little clueless. Sheepishly, I admit, "Mm-hmm."

I feel him shake with a light laugh. "Why do you _do_ that?"

In the dim of the room, I admit, meeting his gaze: "So you won't stop."

He smiles that gorgeous full smile that I love to see from him before he leans down to kiss me again, so reverently and tenderly I feel as if my heart might burst.

………

_So you won't stop_.

Her words echo in my head as I begin to kiss her once more and, heaven help me, I want her again; she has a way of making me feel half my age. I shift a little to withdraw from her as I kiss her, heralding what surely is to her my intention, and she draws in a quick breath.

"Again?" she queries; when I don't deny it, she continues teasingly, "Oh, Mr _Darcy_."

I kiss her, then draw back in order to dispose of the used condom; I reach for another to have one close at hand. Sitting at the head of the bed, though, looking at her in repose in the moonlight… as beautiful as she has ever been…

I decide I don't yet need the condom.

I run my hand over her knee, pulling away the sheet where she's gotten tangled up in them, then place a kiss there.

Then another, on her inner thigh.

Then another, even higher on her thigh.

I grasp her hip and settle between her knees, thanking whichever higher power there was out there for the opportunity to do this once again.

………

Oh holy Jesus, he's going for it. Never in a hundred years did I expect him to do this, as I feel his lips on the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. His fingers touch me gently, making way for the velvet of his tongue.

I gasp at the feel of that tongue lapping, probing, swirling gently, doing its best magic on me. If I only thought I was going to burst before, I'm positive I will now. I grasp at the bed beside me and clutch the sheets in my fingers as he manages to tease at the nexus of nerves with that exceedingly talented tongue of his. I cry out again, bucking up; he grasps my hips, really pressing his fingers in.

He releases one hip, and almost simultaneous to this I feel those perfectly manicured, long, slender fingers working up into me in counterpoint to this tongue.

I explode in a shower of pure sparking energy.

………

It's not hard to tell this time when she comes, and yet, I still don't stop until she tells me to stop; in this case, it's her hand patting me clumsily on the head as if she cannot properly control her limbs. I rear back enough to kiss her inner thigh again, then sit up and reach to take her hands.

"Come here," I say, tugging gently.

"What?" she asks blearily. "Why?"

"We're wrong way 'round on the bed."

She giggles. "Wrong way? There's no wrong way." Her eyes dart down to my lap, and she sits up, but instead of lying down on the pillow next to where I'm settling in, she shifts, clasps a hand on my hip, and leans over me. She wraps her hand around me—already quite hard from when I brought her to climax—and draws a circle around the head with the tip of her tongue. I shudder with the sensation. It's not going to take long for me to reach my own again.

As she moves her hand away in order to close her mouth around me, as she begins to lick and suck and move her head up and down, she bring her fingers down to cup me from beneath. I fall back to the pillows, no longer able to support myself upright, lost in the heady sensation. I buck my hips up into her, and with her free hand she skims my hip with her nail. It's the feel of her gentle teeth raking on me that sends me right over the edge, and I groan loudly as I come. She stays with me through to the end, until I stop moving. She pulls away, then crawls up to me with a Cheshire cat smile playing on her lips.

I pull her up to me, pull the sheets over us, and take her into my arms. I kiss her, adrift on waves of utter bliss.

………

Am half-disbelief, half-laughing to death at the fact that he manages to fall to sleep mid-kiss. But after all of that strenuous activity, after the stress and nervousness he was feeling before that, I'm not surprised. I comb my fingers through the hair at his temple, look at his perfect, serene features, then curl up to him and into his arms, feeling dozy, myself.

I rouse from my state of bliss to feel him nuzzling into my neck, feel his arm slip around my waist again; he has apparently rested long enough.

"Bridget," he says, the sound of my name close to my ear, his breath hot on my neck, just as he starts to nibble on my earlobe. I find myself losing all sense, all over again. The beauty of someone who knows you so intimately is that there's little fumbling and guessing. He can go straight for the things that turn me on the most.

And he does.

He gently strokes the skin on my backside, raking it with his blunted nails. My head falls back as he ravishes my throat. His lips, his mouth move to my breast again; the hand on my arse cups it, then squeezes it.

Another condom it is, then. I break from the kiss, then turn towards the nightstand to grab one.

He's right behind me.

………

My intention is to take it slow, to make love and not just shag, but once I start again I can't control how quickly my lust for her bursts back to full flame. She turns over to reach for another condom, and as she does, the sheet slips off of her, exposing her bare bottom to me.

I can't help myself; I place my hand on it, stroking a wide circle before I move up behind her, pressing myself along her length. Again I nuzzle into her neck, this time from behind her, taking a breast in hand and pressing it up into her. I move my hand down to her stomach, then down and between her legs to caress her with long, slow strokes.

I hear her gasp. I'm sure she feels the hardness building against the small of her back. 

Her eyes are closed, her mouth is open, and her cheeks are flushed pink. She's still clutching the condom packet in her hand. I pluck it from her grasp, then draw back enough to slip it on.

Then I run my hand along her hip and spoon up to her again, kissing her shoulder as I slip my fingers between her legs again. She makes a strangled sound low in her throat.

………

He's up against me again right away, pushing my legs apart, teasing the heat there. He turns me, and then I feel him take my hips in his hand. I lift myself to accommodate him, and he thrusts into me hard from behind. I groan. He rocks slowly, though, so slowly and thoroughly I feel as if I might go mad. Once more, he kisses my shoulder, strokes my breast, reaches down to stroke that throbbing nub of nerves. 

I feel his mouth open on my skin, feel the prickle of teeth, and still he goes slowly, filling me completely before drawing back; I feel as if I may split in two. I moan his name as the spiral of desire spins ever faster, as the sparks light behind my eyes. I can't really reach him or touch him with my hands to instead I grip the sheets on the mattress.

Then comes the speed, paired with force, and we're shaking the bed against the wall, and he's moaning into my shoulder. I gasp and moan and at last I come with wave after wave of glorious release; he carries on stroking and thrusting even as I can feel him trembling atop me. 

He goes taut; I know then he's coming, too, in time with my sustained climax. Our climax. I remember why he always will be at the top of my list for the best I've ever had. I wish, however unrealistically, that this moment would never end.

Realistically, I can take no more. I cover the hand working between my legs with my own, a silent signal that he should stop at last.

………

Her skin is hot beneath my cheek, and as I draw in deep breath after deep breath, eyes closed, I feel the dizziness of bliss that I associate with sex with her. I hold her tight to me; the smaller curve of her body fits perfectly to my own. Her breath is ragged, and there, in the silence, we gasp to recover our breath in sync. Our hearts pound in time.

Quite without thinking I begin to place tender kiss after kiss in the hollow of her neck. _I love you_ , I think over and over again. _I have so missed you_. I tell her the latter, don't risk the former.

I am approaching something close to normal, veering on relaxed, when an obnoxious trilling erupts on the bedside table. I have never been less happy with myself for setting a reminder for an upcoming flight; I would have happily missed the flight this time to continue being with her. I reach for it as she asks me, teasingly, if we are on schedule. I tell her I'm slated to leave for Khartoum in the morning, then curl up close to her, the exhaustion suddenly suffusing every bit of my body.

………

Well, how's _that_ for a cold blast of reality?

I can't relax after that reminder of his busy work life; can't sleep, can't stay. Can't go through all of this again. As much as I love him, it's too hard to be so alone in this coupling. So I wait until his breathing goes steady and shallow, until I know he's deep into slumber, and I rise from the bed. There's stationery at the desk in his suite, so I sit and pen a quick missive. I am honest, and perhaps that means I'm a bit too cruel. But our situations haven't appreciably changed.

I pick around in the dark to find my scattered clothing, my sweater, my handbag, take a moment in the _en suite_ toilet to make myself look like I haven't just been shagged within an inch of my life, in case anyone I know is still lurking about downstairs, though the old gang that's here don't have many nights this late these days.

I realise only when I'm on the motorway back to London that, like a glass slipper on the steps of the castle, I have left behind the fairy wings. Well, they weren't mine to take, anyway. Mark will make sure Poppy gets them back.

It's not a good thing to burst into tears while driving at motorway speeds.

………

I'm surprised only that she left without a chance to talk about things this morning, but the contents of her letter don't surprise me, not really. Sadden me, yes, but not surprise me.

I had left her alone far too often. And it's true: I love her more than anyone else in the world, but I don't really know how to be what she needs, even after so many years of trying. 

I keep thinking I'll know what to do in my personal life when I need to, but in retrospect, I always seem to do the wrong thing.

My house, when I return, seems even emptier, quieter, colder, lonelier than ever before. Perhaps last night's warmth and passion only serves to underscore this reality. I lament what I had, and what I let slip from my fingers.

My hand hovers over the telephone for a brief moment before I draw it back. She has made what she wants abundantly clear.

### Three months later

When I see the test result, I don't know whether I want to laugh or cry. Never thought I'd be in this situation, unsure of whose genetics are melding with my own.

One thing is very clear. I owe it to Mark to let him know, even if he wants nothing to do with me.

………

I'm just concluding my argument for free speech in the Supreme Court of the UK when I glance up into the galley and, to my utter surprise, see her standing there. Bridget. I'm glad I'm done, because I've lost all train of thought. Bridget. Why is she here? My mind races. I divest myself of my court garb and wig and go to greet her.

"Can we talk?" she asks, without preamble. "In private?"

"Of course," I say. "Care to accompany me back to my office? It's not far from here."

She smiles. "I remember."

We make the short drive in silence from Supreme Court to where my office is near the Royal Courts of Justice. We make small talk walking from the car. She seems nervous.

Once we're in my office, surrounded by law tomes and mahogany, she tells me she's expecting. I feel a bit blindsided; I'm happy for her, but it means I'm losing her for good if she's having a child with another man. My chances have passed and I feel a level of despair and desperation I never thought I could feel. My mask of impassivity remains intact, though; because she's come to me for a reason, I ask her how I can help. 

Then she reminds me of our night together at the christening.

I excuse myself for a moment. I go out into the hall to hide the emotion that suddenly overwhelms me, closes my throat, brings tears to my eyes. My imagination runs rampant with thoughts of a future life with Bridget and our child. But I take in a deep breath, clear my throat, then return to her, prepared for the reality of the situation.

………

I told him I'm pregnant and… he leaves the room, leaves me here alone. I'm reminded briefly of the night of his parents' Ruby Wedding when I told him I liked him too, when he pardoned himself before beating a retreat, though this time I'm reasonably sure he'll return. What is he thinking? How does he feel about this? I mean, he seemed pretty excited during the first pregnancy scare on our ski trip years ago… but that marked a dark turn in our relationship then, and we don't have much of a relationship now.

Then he's back. He looks the same as he did minutes ago. And then he tells me, in so many words, that this is the best news he's ever had. I have to tell him he might not actually be the father, though. How can I possibly tell him this?

He seems so happy, so contented, that when he folds me into his arms, I say nothing more for now. I'll tell him. I will.

### Six months after that

I have to admit that when I learnt that I had a rival for the title of "Father of Bridget's Child", I had not reacted well. I had stormed out, but had come to my senses, at least until I was led to believe that I wasn't actually the father at all. That's all behind us now. The DNA test results are in, and now there is no doubt: little William is in fact my son.

I had tried pleading my case for her to take me back, only minutes before her waters broke—how nothing else mattered to me but her and the baby, whether he was mine or not—and reassured her during her labour, but we haven't had much of a chance to talk more about our future since then. We've been busy taking care of our newborn.

I have hope now, when I had not dared to hope again. But it feels like the right time to bring it up.

………

Mark's been over since I brought the baby home two days ago. We've not had much time for anything else but to care for him; Mark runs errands (including getting my handbag from NatWest); we share a kiss here and there; we sleep exhaustedly curled up in my bed, nested together like spoons.

"Bridget," he says to me, now the baby's asleep. We are side by side in bed this time, lamps switched off. Only the moonlight through the skylight casts a rectangle half on the bed, half on the floor.

"Hmm?"

"Have you given any thought to… what I said before?"

"Before what?"

"Before the baby came."

I laugh. "Yes, I have," I said. "But it has to be different than before."

"It will be, I promise you." He turns over to face me, and I to him, but he doesn't stop talking, as if now that he's plucked up the courage, he's not going to stop. "I will do whatever I need to do to be a better partner," he says passionately.

"Not work so much?" I say. "Not constantly flying off to all corners of the globe?"

"Yes," he says without hesitation. "You are my priority. You and William. I can't promise that I will never go off, but… I'm here for you. Both of you. Tell me when I'm getting it wrong."

I contemplate things. "Can we occasionally stay later at parties?" I ask. "Can you at least _pretend_ to like meeting new people?"

………

I am about to protest that I meet lots of new people, but I hold my tongue; I expect she is addressing a specific grievance, one about which I don't have enough information. "Anything, Bridget. I'll do it. I'm not going to risk losing you again."

Her eyes brim with tears. "I'll hold you to it." She leans forward to kiss me. I place a hand on her cheek, then reach to embrace her, holding her to me. She returns that embrace and we kiss at length until I break away to nuzzle into her neck. I hear her make a low sound. "Mark."

"I know, darling," I reassure. "I know." I kiss her again, move a hand to cover her breast, catching her hardening nipple with my thumb. There's to be not much more than this just yet, but I'll take what I can get.

………

To hear this promise, this reassurance, from him feels like truly coming home. I return the kiss with equal depth and fervour, pressing my fingers into his skin. I murmur his name, and tell him that I love him. I curse the fact that I passed a baby out of my body and into the world far too recently, because I want him so very badly.

He brings his hand around to cup my bottom. "Mark," I say again, then remind him, "We can't."

"I know what I can't do," he says, "and I know what I _can_ do."

I inhale sharply as his fingers slip deftly between my legs, sliding over my tender self; as he presses gently where he knows it will have the greatest effect, I moan. My heart races, and my breath goes unsteady. I've been without his touch for far too long, and it only takes a few practiced strokes to make me come, so suddenly it almost takes me by surprise. He captures my mouth with his as I cry out, and thank goodness for that, else I might wake up the baby.

"Oh, darling," he says, kissing me, stroking my hair.

We're off to an excellent start.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> This gem from the shooting script. WHY DON'T WE GET THIS AS A DELETED SCENE ;_;
>
>> INT. MARK’S BEDROOM. LATER.  
> Mark and Bridget happy, content, post-coital.
>> 
>> MARK: Bridget?  
> BRIDGET: Yes.  
> MARK: Were you faking not having an orgasm?  
> BRIDGET (Sheepish): Uh huh.  
> MARK: Why do you do that?  
> BRIDGET: So you won’t stop.  
> MARK: God. I’ve missed you.


End file.
